


keep it clean

by Beans (provetheworst)



Category: Gundam Unicorn, Universal Century Gundam
Genre: (everyone's fine now), (obliquely and in the past), Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Newtypes, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Beans
Summary: angelo doesn't like getting dirty; frontal tries to make it up to him.
Relationships: Full Frontal/Angelo Sauper
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	keep it clean

Angelo stands outside the door of Frontal’s office, attention split between watching the hall and trying to listen in on the ongoing meeting despite the door and vast expanse of the office separating him from the occasion. The company, an aftermarket mobile suit parts distributor, sent two representatives, both of whom Angelo decided he hated on sight, and he’d snarled in their faces before Frontal told him to stand down, and now here he is. Frontal is alone in a room negotiating a potential trade deal to keep the Sleeves’ suits in proper repair at a cheaper rate than normal.

Angelo wishes he were inside. Not that Frontal can’t defend himself, but he sometimes lets people _say_ things to him for the sake of diplomacy, just smiles and brushes off their naive or callous or outright cruel remarks with a smile, and it’s bullshit, and Angelo would tell them to know their place, but. Frontal will be fine. Angelo is just bored and frustrated; if anything _does_ go wrong, he’ll know. The longer they work together, the easier it is for Angelo to find Frontal’s mind, to feel the gist of his intentions.

The only person nearby is the representative’s personal assistant, also waiting for this meeting to end, just as impatient as he stands to the left of the door. He’s leaning back against the wall. He kicks a foot up, getting dirt on the otherwise-immaculate paneling.

“Stop that,” Angelo says.

“Huh?”

“Stand up straight.”

The other man rolls his eyes, putting his hands behind his head and looking up at the ceiling, whistling insouciantly as he very pointedly does not stand up straight or put his foot back on the ground.

Angelo is just beginning to work himself up into a proper fit over this guy refusing to respect the sanctity of this office when he gets a little nudge from Frontal. He’s expecting to be chastised, but instead, he gets permission. And a whole sentence, even: _As long as it’s quick_.

From time to time, Frontal has allowed Angelo glimpses of the vast empty expanse of his existence. Now and again they’ve managed to communicate, to one degree or another, on the battlefield; always, Angelo knows where Frontal is. But getting a direct line of communication, rather than the passive bond that’s somehow, miraculously, being allowed to develop, that Angelo’s lucky enough to have rights to -

He can’t swoon over it for too long, because Frontal wants him to kill this man, so he pulls his sidearm. Has it pressed to the other man’s temple almost before the poor personal assistant realizes what’s happening, and just as the other man’s starting to turn, as realization is beginning to dawn, Angelo makes sure he can never realize anything ever again.

What a mess, though. Angelo’s fought plenty of people, but his kills have mainly been earned in a mobile suit. There are a whole constellation of sensations associated with killing a man in close quarters, none of them good; the blood, the filth. It just makes Angelo angry. But Frontal wanted this, so he’s happy to have carried it out.

The door opens, and the company representative is just about to scream when Angelo grabs him by the shoulder and brings a knee up to his balls. The man grunts, and in the low gravity, with the force of the blow, is nearly driven ceilingward, but Angelo grabs him, spins himself around, and slams an elbow between the man’s shoulder blades to drive him toward the floor instead.

Theoretically, he could use his sidearm again, but there’s something satisfying about repeatedly bashing a man’s skull against the cold metal of the floor. Someone will have to clean up later, of course. Angelo’s going to need a shower and a change of clothes as soon as possible. But. Getting to take out this anger on someone, being unleashed with full permission, feels good.

At some point Frontal appears in the doorway and watches him quietly for a moment, before cutting in with, “I think that’s enough.”

“Ah. Sir! Yes, Captain,” Angelo says, scrambling to his feet, letting the man’s corpse rest - because he is decidedly dead, and probably has been for a while now. Angelo stands at attention, lifting one hand in salute.

“They were involved in other trades, beyond the bootleg parts,” Frontal says. “It’s better we not do business with them.”

Angelo scowls down at the bodies he’s left. He can guess readily enough what else they could have been up to.

Frontal nods a confirmation. So human trafficking, then, and playing both sides - no regard for the colonies’ prosperity or the wellbeing of spacenoids over the wretched parasites clinging to Earth, coddled by gravity’s embrace. It’s not that Neo Zeon demands strict ideological purity from every one of their allies, much as Angelo wishes they could, but that some crimes are unforgivable. Taking advantage of the bodies of the poorest of spacenoids, though. Angelo kicks the man’s corpse. He doesn’t ask how Frontal found out.

“Lieutenant.” Frontal watches him from behind that mask of his. Angelo can feel his gaze, and barely suppresses a pleased shiver at the attention. “I trust you can take care of the bodies.”

“Yes, sir!”

They’ll serve a better purpose now than they ever did in life, at least. In death they can provide raw materials to ensure the continuation of life. Palau is not a particularly productive colony compared to most, but they’re self-sustaining in terms of food, and these two will help more crops grow.

-

Angelo gets halfway back to his room, finally, more than ready to shower, when he gets a sort of tug, and is already on the way to Frontal’s quarters before he’s fully realizes that’s what’s being asked of him.

 _Are you sure,_ is his main question here; he’s not even remotely presentable, feeling itchy and disgusting and just wanting to be clean again, but Frontal is insistent, and much as Angelo is tempted to tell him to just fuck off - Frontal’s earned his trust, but there’s still time for him to lose it. (Angelo doesn’t _want_ to be let down, of course. He wants to trust, so badly. He wants to believe in this man who’s barely a man, in that void that’s large enough to wash away his own impurities and let him reemerge clean. But right now he’s covered in blood - at least it’s not his own - and feeling particularly irritable and his lack of cleanliness is far more literal than it has been for months now.)

He’s been in Frontal’s quarters any number of times, ensuring the Captain takes meals at the proper times, that he sleeps and wakes up when he should - because without minding, the Captain _will_ forego sleep far longer than is advisable even for someone as far beyond mundane humanity as he is - but somehow Angelo feels nervous this time.

Mostly it’s the notion of tracking in such filth with him. He barely wants to touch even the doorknob.

It’s also that he doesn’t have anything for Frontal right now. No meal, no documents, no pressing news or fresh sheets to make his bed (already changed this morning, pure and bleached clean). Just Angelo himself, dirty and on edge.

“Ah, Lieutenant,” Frontal says, rising from the desk in his room. It’s smaller than the one in his office, and pushed up against a wall. “There you are. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“I - what?”

“I thought you’d enjoy the chance to take out some stress on those two, but I didn’t anticipate your discomfort with sullying yourself that way. My apologies.”

“It’s - no, it’s fine, I just need a shower and a change of clothes,” Angelo says, looking aside then down at the floor, not able to meet Frontal’s gaze, such as it is. (Even in his room, Frontal is wearing his mask. He doesn’t always. Sometimes Angelo is allowed to look at him directly, at that handsome, slightly uncanny face with sharp blue eyes that could pierce through even a colony’s reinforced walls.) There’s something vaguely absurd about the Captain apologizing for this, especially when it is, in fact, Frontal’s fault that he’s still dirty.

Somehow Frontal is directly before him, and somehow Frontal scrapes some dried blood off his face with one fingernail before patting his cheek. “Would you allow me to make up for it?”

“What?” Angelo snaps, needlessly irritable, then forces himself to try again - “I mean. What do you mean?” He manages to sound slightly calmer this time. It’s not that he’s angry at Frontal, per se, just on edge and unsure.

“Hm.” Frontal considers him for a long moment, then nods. “Lieutenant. No, Angelo. Angelo, I find I prefer it when you’re clean and content. You seem to prefer it, too, and since it’s my fault you had to do this, allow me to take care of you, this once.”

Angelo stares up at him, bewildered. He can feel the void seeking at the edges of his consciousness, a welcoming emptiness ready to consume his irritation, but more than that - there’s intent. Frontal steps away to remove his mask, placing it on his desk, then nods toward the bathroom.

Part of Angelo is convinced he must have snapped. He’s lost his mind, surely. But if this is what madness brings, fine, he’ll follow the Captain into the big, spacious bathroom allotted to him here on Palau. He’s followed the Captain into worse places. Why not.

And apparently he’ll let the Captain close in on him again and carefully, gently, undo the buttons on his bloody uniform, the teal stained black with blood and gore. His breath comes very shallow; he’s worried that if he moves the moment will shatter and he’ll realize he’s back —

But no, he’s here and breathing and he can let those thoughts sink into the void. See them, then let them pass through. Frontal never seems to mind. There’s a dark, burning core to all that emptiness, and part of Angelo thinks - this misery of his. The suffering he went through. It fuels that bitter core, lends strength to that overpowering hatred of an outdated humanity that would do such a thing to a spacenoid. It makes Angelo angry, too. Right now, though. Right now he lets those thoughts get dragged in to the black hole of Frontal’s mind, and focuses on the way his feet press against the floor and the feeling of his fingernails digging into his palms as he breaths.

Frontal finishes unbuttoning the uniform jacket, and briefly touches Angelo’s face. The press of his palm and fingers is grounding, and Angelo is aware of the warmth of skin on skin. Frontal’s hands are soft, fingers uncallused. He wears gloves at nearly all times. Of course his hands are soft. Angelo tilts his head into the touch, closing his eyes, but then it’s gone as Frontal gently tugs the jacket off, Angelo going along with it pliantly.

Frontal has not said a word about any of Angelo’s scars. Not like he hasn’t seen them before, but - still. He’s aware but leaves it be and Angelo appreciates that.

He toes off his own shoes, just to be helpful, and Frontal pulls his shirt off, too, and Angelo thinks - how absurd. “You don’t have to …”

“You take care of this vessel,” Frontal says to him, taking a half step back, letting Angelo have a moment of space. “I’d like to try and take care of you in return. But of course, if you would rather I not -“

“No!” Angelo says, entirely too quickly. “Please. It’s fine. I’m glad.”

“If I’m making you uncomfortable.” Frontal pauses. “Or if you dislike anything I do.”

“I’ll tell you.” Angelo closes his eyes, scrunching up his face, over-focused for a moment - making sure his mind is as wide open as possible to Frontal. It feels a bit like exposing a raw nerve to the air, but even that is soothed by the great tide of the Captain’s mind. “You’ll know.”

“Ah.” The Captain is watching him so intently. That focus has the potential to be terrifying, but Angelo - Angelo trusts him, is the problem. All that unearthly focus, that too-sharp mind that’s only vaguely akin to properly human, all preprogrammed and full of strange fragments and spaces as dark and open as the void of space, with that bright-hot anger hidden deep beneath it all somewhere very distant but unwavering, like a star on the brink of supernova. It should terrify Angelo. He’s seen other Newtypes shy away from connection with Frontal, as they should, but all Angelo wants to do is explore.

Angelo’s opened himself up, and the Captain’s done the same. So. Fair’s fair.

“We’ll get you a new uniform,” Frontal says blandly, turning aside for a moment to put Angelo’s stained jacket in the trash and then turn on the shower. Angelo takes the opportunity to take off his pants, folding them neatly, then, after a second’s hesitation, throwing them angrily in the trash too. It feels satisfying, getting rid of them, knowing he doesn’t have to worry about the cost of a new pair. He’s never just thrown clothes away so casually before, not without a lot of fretting. 

It feels satisfying, too, standing naked before the Captain (who is only now removing his own clothes) without feeling any of the old resentment or terror that this sort of openness used to imply, before he was brought out of that vile, disgusting place. Knowing that the Captain wants him clean. That the Captain wouldn’t take without asking.

The suite that the top brass set out for Frontal is excessive, but it’s also _luxurious_ , is the thing; Angelo has not had much chance to indulge in his brief, miserable life. While he’s been in here before to gather up laundry - scutwork, but he’s doing whatever he can to ensure his place - he hasn’t gotten to really appreciate, say, the amount of space that lets two people maneuver comfortably, or the sheer amount of space the shower affords.

The shower head mimics rainfall, pouring down from above, and the water’s warm and gentle and Angelo stands under it for a moment and then - absurd, _absurd_ , he is again briefly convinced he’s in some surreal dream - the Captain joins him.

This was the implication all along, of course, but it’s still bewildering to actually be in a shower stall with the Captain. 

Frontal says, “Let me wash your hair first,” and Angelo just nods, overwhelmed. It’s an odd feeling - he feels calm and safe and also incredibly wound up. Giddy might be the word for it, this overpowering glee that practically has him vibrating even as he finally calms down from his earlier unease.

For one guilty moment, as Frontal starts to work the shampoo into his hair, Angelo feels guilty at his gut reaction - that Frontal should really have nicer-smelling shampoo, because it’s nice enough for Angelo but not up to the lofty standards the Captain deserves - but then he shoves that thought aside to instead appreciate the touch on his scalp. He hasn’t had anyone touch him this way in - ever, maybe. Not since before his parents died at least. He’s been _touched_ plenty, in all sorts of awful ways, but always, always for the benefit of others. This is for his sake, not anyone else’s.

Frontal’s touch is firm and thorough as he makes sure all of Angelo’s hair is properly lathered up; Angelo stands there before him, head tilted up slightly, eyes closed. Back under the water again, the shampoo rinses off. It’s a little slower than it would be in his own shower, because the water’s so gentle, but Angelo doesn’t mind. There’s no rush. Probably there should be: they have any number of things that they both need to get done, but Frontal assures him otherwise with his own lack of urgency.

It’s probably, technically, Angelo’s duty to keep him on track, but. This once, it’s probably alright.

“It is,” Frontal agrees, sounding mildly amused. “Those two were my last meeting today. And since that deal fell through, there’s less to be done about it than if it had been successful.”

“Hmm.” Angelo squints one eye open when it feels safe enough to do so without getting soap in his eye, glancing at Frontal suspiciously.

“You would be able to tell if I were lying,” Frontal points out.

“Hmm,” Angelo says again, more pointedly, then laughs, and turns away again quickly.

“Let me wash the rest of you.” Despite the flat delivery, it’s still clearly a request, and Angelo nods. The vaguely unreal sensation of all of this is finally slipping away. This may be bizarre, but so are most parts of his life. Plucked out of misery and obscurity to find that he’s got the capacity to be a gifted pilot, that his tendencies toward violence and anger can be useful to someone, that said _someone_ is the new Red Comet, here to liberate spacenoids from the yoke of Earth’s oppression. Sure, why shouldn’t Full Frontal - the vessel of humanity’s hopes and dreams - do this for him. Why not. It’s been a very strange day.

It’s been a very strange day, and Frontal has a wash cloth all lathered up with soap and is washing Angelo’s back first since it’s what’s most readily available to him. Angelo’s shoulders lift in a yawn, and he takes a big, deep breath, all his muscles tensing up for a second before he relaxes more than before.

“I really would have been fine doing this myself,” Angelo says, still feeling vaguely guilty about taking up the Captain’s time despite everything, “but this is. Nice. Thank you.”

“How am I supposed to care for humanity if I can’t care for one person?” Frontal asks, reflective. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I mean, there’s a difference between - what all spacenoids want, and what any one person wants.” Angelo closes his eyes again, even though he doesn’t need to right now. He holds his arm out to the side a little as Frontal wipes the cloth down, pausing to scrub as some blood that dried onto his knuckles and that the water hasn’t fully washed away just yet. “We’ve all got our own faults. Things we want even though we shouldn’t.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m as good as anyone, I guess.” Angelo scowls, but then Frontal’s arms are around his waist, the Captain’s nose pressed into his wet hair, and Angelo is reminded of all that empty space, the vast yawning void inside Frontal. “No, that’s not it.”

“No,” Frontal agrees.

“Captain.” Angelo wriggles free, just long enough to turn around, peering up at Frontal with wide eyes. He reaches up, cupping Frontal’s face in his hands, staring into eyes too blue and too deep to belong to anyone else. 

Frontal, unblinking, meets his gaze.

In theory, Angelo could kiss him. He knows it would go over fine; Frontal would allow it. But it’s not because Frontal would want it, per se. What Frontal wants is for Angelo to enjoy his work and ensure that Angelo is well-treated after so many years of hardship. He already trusts that Angelo won’t let him down, and wants to reward that. So. Angelo could kiss him. In theory.

Suddenly defiant, Angelo decides, “I’m going to make you want me. Sooner or later.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then try your best,” Frontal says, apparently amused by this declaration. Again, though, he’s not opposed. Inside him is a vast, empty space; an asteroid, hollowed out, mined empty. Thoughts flicker across and through that void like searchlights, vivid-bright, dangerous. From the outside, he looks like anyone else. Well - tall, handsome. Not _anybody_ else. But he looks human, mostly.

From the outside, Palau itself looks normal. Like any other asteroid. Even it isn’t quite as hollowed out as Full Frontal. The Captain was built this way, constructed out of raw material. Just because they made him doesn’t mean he isn’t real, though. Angelo wraps his fingers around Frontal’s wrist to feel his pulse. His jaw works. Frontal’s heartbeat is steady as clockwork, a perfectly constructed complication.

Even Palau can sustain life. People live out their lives here. Angelo thinks about the roses they have to have delivered, imported from a colony better suited. But - if he tried, Angelo could learn to grow things. Even here.


End file.
